


Travelers

by QueenieZo



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angsty Lucy Preston, Everyone except Carol and Emma are Pure Angels, F/M, Hurt Wyatt Logan, Lucy is a Pure Angel, POV Multiple, Rufus is a Pure Angel, Sharing a Room, lyatt, lyatt everywhere, lyatt for miles, post S2E1 - The War to End All Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14015868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieZo/pseuds/QueenieZo
Summary: When the Time Team chases Emma and Carol to 1888 London, they suspect Jack the Ripper might just be Rittenhouse. But when Lucy and Wyatt end up trapped on a steamer bound for America, they must figure out how to get back to Rufus and the Lifeboat—or be stuck in the 1890s forever.





	1. Ripper

The alarm penetrated every inch of her skull. 

“Lucy...”

It reverberated through her brain, bouncing off the bone.

“Lucy.”

It built until it reached a pitch where she was sure her head would surely shatter if it didn’t escape. 

“Lucy!” 

She shot upright from her lumpy mattress. The alarm was not in her head; it echoed off the cold metal walls, causing a faint vibration. In the blackness, she couldn’t make out the face of whoever had been calling her name. 

“Lucy, we got to go. Rittenhouse took out the Mothership.” 

Wyatt’s crystal blue eyes shown even in the near darkness. Lucy blinked, her eyes adjusting. 

“When?”

—————————————————

“London, November 8, 1888.” 

Jiya typed at her computer, doing final checks on the Lifeboat. Her Star Trek pajama pants were on inside out. She gestured to the screen. “At least, we think it’s London. Still can’t get a better guess than 50 square miles, but London is our best bet.” 

The numbers and symbols on the screen meant little to Lucy, like usual, but she trusted Jiya’s judgment. “London is a good guess. 1888 was the year Jack the Ripper was terrorizing Whitechapel. Or at least the five canonical murders attributed to the Ripper occurred in 1888.” 

Agent Christopher and Connor, off to the side, locked eyes, looking grim. 

Rufus, at the computer next to Jiya, his usual hoodie thrown over pajamas, typed furiously. “November 8, 1888, London. Nothing. But November 9: the body of Mary Jane Kelly, considered to be Jack the Ripper’s fifth and final victim, is discovered. Fantastic. H.H. Holmes wasn’t bad enough, let’s go find one of the most infamous serial killers in history. Who was never caught, mind you.” 

Wyatt raked a hand through his hair, making his bed head worse. Lucy tried not to stare. “What do we know about him?” He asked. 

Lucy shrugged. “Not much. He supposedly murdered five prostitutes in the Whitechapel area of London, but there were more Whitechapel murders that couldn’t be conclusively linked to him. Police received the famous “Dear Boss” letter in September of 1888; that’s where the name “Jack the Ripper” came from, although many believe it was a hoax written by the press.”

“He was a butcher,” Connor piped up. Everybody stared. He shrugged. “I’m British. The Ripper slit throats, ripped open abdomens, cut out organs, severed ears, mailed pieces of kidneys to the press, you name it.” 

Wyatt looked a little green. 

Rufus rubbed his eyes. “I hate this job.” 

Agent Christopher stepped forward. “Why would Rittenhouse care about Jack the Ripper?”

The group was silent, each lost in their own horrid thoughts. Connor spoke hesitantly. “You don’t think... Jack the Ripper surely can’t be a sleeper agent?” 

The thought was too awful to consider. 

Lucy shook her head. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good.” 

The Time Team looked at one another. Wyatt still looked a little nauseous. Rufus just looked tired. Lucy gave a little nod. As one, they stood. 

“Let’s go,” Lucy said. 

—————————————————

Rufus flipped switches, checking the Lifeboat screens. Lucy and Wyatt climbed in behind. They both sat in their respective chairs, Wyatt automatically leaning forward to buckle Lucy’s straps. Her corseted bodice made it difficult to move, and the bustle made sitting properly almost impossible. Connor hadn’t been able to recover the costumes from Mason Industries, but they’d slowly started rebuilding the collection, starting by raiding Halloween stores. Lucy’s dress wasn’t accurate at all for Victorian London (it was made of polyester, for God’s sake), but it at least looked close enough. Wyatt looked slick, if a little ridiculous, in his top hat and tails. 

Lucy smiled. “I like your pants.” 

Wyatt glanced down at the gray plaid monstrosity. “It’s almost as bad as the Greg Brady suit. We definitely need to go trick-or-treating later.” 

“At least you get to be a high-class guy,” Rufus piped up from the front. He adjusted his newsboy cap. He wore a brown wool vest and jacket over tan pants. His outfit was made up entirely of modern clothes, but he looked Victorian enough to at least pass. 

“That doesn’t make the plaid pants any better,” Wyatt complained. 

Rufus pulled at his starched collar. “I just wish I wasn’t wearing wool.” 

“You want to trade? I’ve got a lovely corset either of you would look gorgeous in,” Lucy challenged both of them. Rufus chuckled, embarrassed. Wyatt had the decency to look contrite. 

Rufus flipped a few more switches and the machine began to rattle. Lucy clutched her seatbelt. She always hated this part. She was trusting a giant steel eyeball to not fly apart while they traveled through space-time. And it still reminded her of that car. She screwed her eyes shut. The Mothership may have been in the hands of enemies the few times she’d traveled in it, but it was a far superior ride. 

With a pop, the machine disappeared through the warp. 

The few moments of actual travel were the worst. Lucy’s teeth rattled in her skull, and she clamped her jaw down, trying to keep from biting her tongue. 

She and Wyatt were always knee to knee, but she felt Wyatt’s leg move closer to hers, wrapping his foot around her own. She returned the grip as much as she could. Wyatt would never admit it, but she knew the ride freaked him out as much as it did her and Rufus. 

With an ear-popping burst of pressure, the machine landed on solid ground and powered down. Lucy finally opened her eyes, meeting Wyatt’s. His wild blue eyes were almost purple from the ride in the dim light. He took a deep breath, unbuckled his seatbelt, then leaned forward and started on Lucy’s. “Never gets easier.” 

Rufus shook his head and pushed the button to open the door. “The day it does, we’ve been doing this too long.” 

Wyatt clambered out, then turned to help Lucy. She took his hand gratefully as she tried to not trip over her many layers of fabric. The damn bustle made moving so much harder. 

Finally, Rufus followed. The three stared at each other for a moment, dusting themselves off. They’d landed in a remote valley in the countryside. There were few trees to hide the Lifeboat, but Lucy just had to hope that no one would happen by. 

The sun was beginning to set. Lucy looked into the distance, where smog made the air hazy. She pointed. “That’s London.” 

Rufus squinted. “Let’s go find a serial killer.” 

—————————————————

Even after all this time, Lucy was still awed by her job. The streets of London bustled with coaches and pedestrians. Many on the sidewalks hawked this newspaper or that vegetable. The din was incredible. She gawked at the elaborate dresses worn by the ladies who strolled with gentlemen down the road. Lucy had always been fascinated by the Victorian era. It wasn’t great for women, it wasn’t great for sanitation, but Lucy still loved it. Something about the lurid and the macabre that defined the time exhilarated her. Even the smell couldn’t ruin her mood. Wyatt and Rufus, on the other hand, both seemed like they were not having a great time. 

Wyatt screwed up his nose. “They didn’t know what a sewage system was, huh?”

Lucy shook her head. “Victorian London was a cesspool for disease. But you have to admit, this is pretty amazing.” 

Rufus kept glancing around. “Yeah, amazing, and not conspicuous at all. Two rich white people going for a stroll with their poor black friend.” 

Lucy had to admit they were getting some odd looks. “Maybe we should hurry.” 

They quickened their pace. 

Lucy had to stop and ask for directions. She didn’t know London that well, and especially not in 1888. But as they neared Whitechapel, the crowds rapidly dispersed and the lamplighters appeared to light the gas streetlights. The atmosphere quickly changed as they made their way into the poorer neighborhood. Women with near-clown levels of makeup lurked in doorways, giggling. A few men ducked into this pub or that brothel. Lucy found herself looking over her shoulder, feeling like they were being watched. Suddenly she wished she wasn’t so finely dressed. Rufus looked less out of place than her and Wyatt. She could tell Wyatt was equally uneasy, as he kept his hand near his vest, where she knew his gun was stashed. 

One lady, wearing only her undergarments, sauntered out of the shadows and grabbed Wyatt’s arm. “Evening, sir. You looking for some company? I could keeps you entertained.” She trailed a finger down Wyatt’s chest. 

He laughed uncomfortably and removed her hand. “I’m quite alright, ma’am.” 

Lucy linked her arm through Wyatt’s and glared at the woman. “We’re just passing through, thank you very much.” 

The woman pouted, spotted Rufus, and leered. Lucy pulled both of the men away. 

Rufus shuddered. “It’s official. I hate London.” 

Lucy kept walking. “We’re almost there, I think.” 

Wyatt kept his arm linked through Lucy’s. “Good. The sooner we find Emma, the sooner we can get out of this penny dreadful.” 

The three of them walked closer than was necessary. 

Whitechapel was a slum like no other. Men lay slumped against buildings in the gutter. Some women wrung out their wet laundry, but most of the women they saw were prostitutes. Dirty-faced children sat on the curb, watching. Garbage was piled so high, they were basically wading through it. 

Lucy moved closer to Wyatt. “Watch for pickpockets.” 

“ _Oliver Twist_ didn’t prepare me for this,” Rufus mumbled. 

“ _Oliver Twist_ was published almost 50 years earlier,” Lucy mumbled back. 

Wyatt chuckled. 

They came to an intersection. Lucy glanced up at the street sign: Miller’s Court. She pointed. “Mary Kelly’s body is found at 13 Miller Court at 10:45 tomorrow morning.” 

Rufus wiped his brow. “Great. So now we’re in serial killer territory.” 

Something in the distant shadows moved. 

“Did you see that?” Lucy breathed. 

Wyatt pulled Lucy and Rufus up against the nearest building and unholstered his gun. “See what?”

Lucy squinted, trying to make out who or what was slinking through the darkness. It was difficult to tell whether the figure was a man or woman. 

Wyatt leaned against the wall, gun drawn. “Stay behind me.” 

“You can’t kill Jack the Ripper,” Lucy whispered. 

Rufus whispered back furiously, “I don’t think that would be such a terrible idea.” 

“I’m not going to kill anybody if I can avoid it,” Wyatt murmured. Lucy peeked out from behind him. The figure stepped out of the darkness and into the pool of light under a street lamp. A jolt ran through Lucy and she grabbed Wyatt’s arm. 

“Wait!” 

She pointed. Wyatt and Rufus turned to see the familiar shock of red hair. “It’s Emma!” 

Sure enough, Emma Whitmore ducked out of the light and back into the shadows. Wyatt gestured for them to follow. 

Emma seemed to know exactly where she was going. The trio tailed her, keeping far back, losing her once or twice, until she reached a tavern called The Foxtail. They followed her in. She sat at a table near the back, and she wasn’t alone. Lucy staggered. 

It was her mother. 

Wyatt placed a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy couldn’t breathe. She thought she’d lost everything, but she miscalculated how much it would hurt to see Carol again. Lucy felt like her heart was being squeezed by an unseen fist. This was worse than losing her sister. Because her mother hadn’t vanished. But she’d turned her back on Lucy, all but outright saying she didn’t want her anymore. Lucy tried to control the tears that sprung to her eyes.  

Carol and Emma spoke for only a moment before they both headed up the stairs. 

“Lucy.” 

She started a little at Wyatt’s quiet voice in her ear. She faced him, blinking hard. She couldn’t stop one tear from escaping, though, and she swiped at it quickly. Wyatt’s jaw clenched. 

She cleared her throat. “I’m fine. We need to wait for them to leave.” 

She couldn’t handle the pitying looks Wyatt and Rufus gave her, so she sat at the table near the back that her mother and Emma had just vacated. It offered a good view of the stairs while keeping them relatively hidden. 

Wyatt and Rufus seated themselves next to her. Wyatt placed his hand over hers, giving her a small smile. That’s how they stayed for the rest of the night. 

—————————————————

“Lucy.” 

She jolted awake. Wyatt was shaking her shoulder. She rubbed her neck; it hurt from sleeping with her head on her arms all night. 

“Emma and Carol are leaving.” He pointed to the door. Lucy stood. Seeing her mother in the gray daylight filtering through the grimy tavern windows was even harder than it had been last night, but she steeled herself and followed. 

They didn’t have far to go, however, because Carol and Emma, both carrying luggage, parted ways at the next intersection. Carol headed east while Emma continued north. 

Without hesitation, Lucy followed her mother. Wyatt tried to grab her, whispering her name loudly, but she ignored him. She heard him curse but she didn’t care. She had to know what her mother was up to. 

Wyatt caught up to Lucy and whispered in her ear, “Rufus went after Emma.” 

Lucy nodded and continued after her mother. 

Carol led them through the twisting streets of London until they reached the docks, bustling with sailors. At the end of the docks, a large steamship waited, well-to-do passengers boarding with carpet bags. Carol walked up the gangplank and handed the steward a ticket. Lucy wasn’t sure what to make of this. 

“Why is she boarding a steamer?” 

Wyatt shook his head, nonplussed. 

Lucy glanced back at the boat. “We have to follow her.” 

“We can’t get on without tickets.”

Lucy looked around at the sailors loading luggage into the cargo hold from the dock. “I have an idea.” 

The cargo hold was cold and damp, but Lucy and Wyatt were able to easily sneak on. Wyatt was Delta Force for a reason. They found the door that led to the boiler room and quickly ducked through it. An engine worker spotted them. “Hey, you can’t be down here!”

Wyatt grabbed Lucy’s hand and ran. She couldn’t help think of that scene in _Titanic_ , where Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet sneak off to have sex in the car and they run through the engine room. Lucy hoped the heat from the boiler and running would hide the sudden blush on her cheeks. 

They made it out and found their way up to the top deck. 

“Carol has to be here somewhere. Maybe she’s looking for someone,” Lucy mused. She looked around, trying to spot her mother’s blond hair. 

Wyatt tapped her shoulder. “Over there.” He pointed to where Carol lounged in a deck chair, chatting with another woman. Lucy didn’t recognize the stranger. 

She started forward, Wyatt close behind. As she reached the back of Carol’s chair, she opened her mouth to scream all manner of hurtful things at her mother, but she found the words wouldn’t come. She stood there, opening and closing her mouth like a fish, until Carol glanced back and noticed them. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

“Lucy, what are you doing here?” 

Lucy coughed. “I might ask you the same question, _Mother_.” The word was no endearment coming from her lips; Lucy rather felt like she was cursing. 

Carol smiled softly. “I’m traveling back to America, dear.” 

“What’s your endgame?” Wyatt spit the words out. 

Carol wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Ah, yes, Master Sergeant Logan. We haven’t had a proper introduction yet.” 

Wyatt smiled mirthlessly. “Don’t count on one.” 

Lucy hit the deck chair. “What are you trying to do, Mom? If there’s someone important on this boat, I’ll find—“

“Lucy, calm down. I really am here just to travel,” Carol entreated. 

Lucy got in her mother’s face and grabbed her arm. “You’re a liar and we’re going to stop you and Rittenhouse.”

“Is everything alright, Ms. Preston?” A steward appeared, looking concerned. 

“These people are bothering me, James. I believe they’re stowaways,” Carol murmured. Lucy released her mother in shock. 

“We’re not stowaways— this woman is my mother!” Lucy spluttered. 

Carol eyed her, sadness evident. “I’ve never seen this young woman before.” 

Lucy’s jaw dropped. The steward reached out for Lucy’s arm. Wyatt stepped forward. “Don’t you touch her.” 

The steward narrowed his eyes at them. “Tickets, please.” 

“We don’t have tickets—“ Wyatt stammered. “Look, we’ll just get off, alright?” 

The steward blew his whistle. Other stewards appeared. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.” He gestured to the open water. Lucy felt her stomach drop. They were moving. 

The stewards grabbed Lucy and Wyatt, who tried to fight them off, but one snagged his gun. They started to haul them away. 

Lucy tried to pull away. “Mom, Mom, no! Let go!” 

Carol turned away. “I hope you enjoy New York.” 

The stewards dragged Lucy and Wyatt down to an empty steerage cabin. They pushed them inside the room scarcely larger than a closet with only a bunk bed and a tiny porthole. They locked the door behind them. Wyatt pounded on it to no avail. Lucy sank onto the lower bunk. 

“You don’t happen to be wearing another modern bra?” He asked wryly. 

Lucy shook her head, in shock. Wyatt kicked the door once more, then sat next to Lucy. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. 

“I’m sorry about Carol. We’ll figure out what she’s up to, I swear,” Wyatt said gruffly. 

Lucy shook her head again. “That’s not it. Wyatt, she said New York. Do you realize what that means?” 

Wyatt stared blankly. 

“A trip from London to New York in 1888 took roughly a week to ten days. Carol said, ‘enjoy New York.’ It means the Lifeboat is in London and we’re on a steamer bound for New York.”

Wyatt blanched. “Shit.” 

They locked eyes and in unison said, “The directive.” 

Wyatt said, “If we’re separated for longer than a week, Rufus is supposed to go back to the present. If this trip takes a week one way—“

“— we miss our deadline, and Rufus leaves us in the past.” Lucy stood and looked out the porthole. “We’re stuck in 1888, 3,500 miles from our ride.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for historical stuff!


	2. Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and commented such nice things! This is literally my second fanfic ever, so your kind words mean the world.   
> I planned on spending my Sunday night watching the new episode, but since my TV provider is stupid and NBC’s live website refused to work, I wrote instead. So have a chapter fueled by my intense, blinding rage at cable and NBC.

__Rufus hated their plans. Their plans never worked. Wyatt may be a fan of making it up as they go, but Rufus liked a solid, well-thought-out, foolproof plan. They never came up with those. It was always, “We have to chase the bad guys! Time travel now, think later!”

These thoughts swirled through Rufus’s head as he ran from Emma’s goons. He’d managed to tail her all way back to the city center, and he’d thought he’d been doing a pretty good job, considering subtlety was not Rufus’s strong suit. But as he’d caught up with her, he realized she’d led him into a trap. Two hulking Rittenhouse agents stepped off the sidewalk and grabbed Rufus’s arms. If not for Wyatt’s recent insistence that he and Lucy learn some self-defense, Rufus would have been in serious trouble. As it was, he was definitely no match for two huge dudes, but he had the element of surprise on his side. After stomping on one guy’s foot and kicking the other in the shin, he’d run off. He had no idea where Lucy and Wyatt were, and he wasn’t sure how to find them. Their normal agreement was when someone got separated, they met back up at the Lifeboat. Rufus didn’t know if he could lose his Rittenhouse tails. But he didn’t see another way to find his friends, so he ran in the direction of their precious time machine.

Rufus wound his way through the twisting streets of London, “north” his only thought of direction. When the team had been stranded in 1754, Rufus had picked up a very small amount of Wyatt’s outdoorsman qualities, telling direction by the sun among them. He wasted no time looking behind him, only hoping that the maze of narrow roads would hide him.

Finally, Rufus left the city behind, breaking into the open countryside that surrounded London. He was out of breath and a stitch burned in his side something awful, but still he continued. Once he was a good distance down the dusty country road, he risked a glance behind him. No one followed. Rufus crossed to the low stone wall that bordered the street and slumped against it. He could barely breathe. Wyatt was supposed to be the one who did the physical stuff. Rufus couldn’t remember the last time he’d run so much. Maybe 1754. He really hated that mission.

He fingered the rough loose stones that made up the wall. It was extraordinarily heavy for its size. He pocketed a small one. But he couldn’t afford to rest long. Emma and her goons could be anywhere. Rufus hauled himself to his feet and started jogging, pulling at his starched wool collar.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Rufus reached the Lifeboat. It appeared to be untouched since they’d left it, which was reassuring. He didn’t like leaving it in such an exposed area.

He was just about to climb into the ship when a voice came from behind.

“Not a very good hiding spot this time.”

Rufus’s blood ran cold. He slowly turned around to see Emma, aiming her gun.

“I’ve come to expect better from you, Rufus,” Emma scolded, smiling. “I thought you were going to make things harder.”

Rufus swallowed. “Forgive me if I’m all out of good quips today. The terror of imminent death will do that to a guy. Are you going to kill me?”

Emma took a couple sauntering steps towards him. Rufus flinched.

“Trust me, I’d like to. But I have orders, unfortunately,” Emma drawled.

“Orders? Since when do you listen to orders? You were going to kill Lucy back in 1918–“

“—And given the chance again I’ll do it. But a girl can only get in so much trouble.” Emma advanced. Rufus backed up until his back hit the Lifeboat. He was cornered.

“So what is your plan here?” Rufus wanted to stall as long as possible, to give Wyatt time to make one of his daring rescues.

“I’m not some Bond villain, Rufus. You can’t get me monologuing.”

The land was too open behind Emma; Rufus could clearly see no one was coming. His heart sank as he thought about what he was going to do next.

“Then you’re missing out on the best part of being a Bond villain, because that’s definitely what you are. I should know. I met the guy.” Rufus’s hand drifted to his pocket.

Emma advanced. “Villain is such a harsh word, isn’t it?”

“Not as harsh as this!” Rufus palmed the rock from the wall in his pocket and threw it. The element of surprise was on his side once again, and Emma, eyes wide in shock, ducked out of the way. But she wasn’t fast enough; the heavy, rough rock grazed her head, opening a small gash on her cheek. Rufus used the distraction to climb into the Lifeboat and lock the door.

He powered up the machine as he heard bullets ricocheting off the outside.

“I’m sorry, guys. I promise I’ll come back,” Rufus murmured as the Lifeboat disappeared into the void with a air-sucking pop.

—————————————————

Jiya’s headaches were getting worse.

They were starting to impede her focus, and she knew she should tell Connor or Agent Christopher (or Rufus) but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t need everyone worrying about her; she brought this on herself by being so eager to time travel. She also knew that as soon as she voiced her problems, she’d be ordered to rest, for both her own health and for the safety of the team. But she needed to be there to work the computers; Connor might be regaining his knowledge but he was still somewhat useless as an engineer. And Agent Christopher was certainly no computer whiz.

So Jiya took an ibuprofen and did her best to power through. But the visions were also getting worse, and no amount of medicine could fix those. She knew almost every time someone in the bunker was going to stub their toe or cut themselves cooking. And no matter how she tried to warn them (subtly, because she certainly didn’t want them to know she was now somehow psychic), they always ended up getting hurt.

Jiya sat at her computers now, trying to focus through her current migraine, when the screens lit up. The Lifeboat was coming back. Odd, since the Mothership was still in 1888, but maybe something was wrong. The thought made her blood run cold. She typed furiously, trying to see the Lifeboat. All seemed normal, but foreboding still filled Jiya’s bones.

With a burst of wind and its customary sonic bang, the Lifeboat popped back into existence. The whirring rings slowed to a stop, and the hatch eased open.

Jiya sprang to her feet and ran up to the machine. Rufus appeared and she gave him a hand.

Connor and Agent Christopher hurried up behind Jiya.

“Did you find the sleeper? What did Rittenhouse want?” Agent Christopher asked rapid fire.

Jiya looked behind Rufus into the empty Lifeboat. Empty. Her stomach dropped. “Where are Lucy and Wyatt?”

Rufus shook his head, breathing hard. “We got separated and Emma followed me to the Lifeboat, and I had to come back. But we just have to charge up the machine and I’m going right back.”

Agent Christopher’s jaw dropped. “You left them in 1888?”

Connor spoke up. “I’m sure he had no other option. We’ll just get the Lifeboat plugged in and...”

Their voices faded in Jiya’s head, and a high-pitched ringing took their place. Her vision went black, except around her friends, who all suddenly sported cuts and burns on their faces and arms. She was suddenly acutely aware of a small click and a hiss. Jiya’s breath stopped.

“Get down!” She dove at Rufus, in turn knocking down Connor and Agent Christopher just in time for the bomb.

Metal went flying as it exploded. Jiya felt the heat on her back. It wasn’t a huge explosion, but still enough to make Jiya wince as she hauled herself off of her friends.

She was disheartened to see that they all had exactly the cuts and burns she’d seen in her vision.

Rufus ran and grabbed a fire extinguisher, putting out the small fires that burned. The blast had knocked their one remaining computer over; Jiya prayed it wasn’t damaged.

Once the fires were out, Rufus tossed the empty fire extinguisher on the floor. The four shellshocked team members stared at the hole blown clean through the Lifeboat. Jiya could see into the hatch.

“What... they’ve... how could this...” Rufus stuttered.

Connor paced in front of the hole blown in his time machine. “This is— outrageous— they’ve tampered with— the wiring in here is _delicate_ and—“

“What the hell was that?” Agent Christopher demanded.

“Emma must have found the ship... that’s why she didn’t kill me,” Rufus whispered in horror.

“But Emma couldn’t blow it up through time,” Connor interjected. “That’s not how radio waves work.”

The pieces suddenly clicked into place in Jiya’s mind. “They didn’t. The Lifeboat and Mothership’s CPUs are linked. Just like we can tell when they’ve jumped, they can tell when we are, too. Emma must have rigged the explosives in 1888, and when the Lifeboat got back to the present, someone at Rittenhouse detonated the bomb.”

“She used this opportunity to disable the Lifeboat,” Rufus breathed. “It’s more valuable to them that way. They only have one pilot; it’s not like they can train more without a simulator. So the Lifeboat would be useless to them. They just wanted to destroy it.”

The four stared at each other. Jiya could see the horror rise in Rufus’s eyes as they came to the same conclusion.

“Lucy and Wyatt.” Tears sprang to Rufus’s eyes.

“We have no way to get them back,” Jiya finished. “Until we figure out how to fix the Lifeboat, they’re stuck in 1888.”

Agent Christopher stepped carefully through the wreckage, stopping in front of the ship. “It’s not just that.” She regarded the machine. If it didn’t already have a hole in it, the look she gave it was enough to put one in it. “Until you figure out how to fix the Lifeboat, we can’t chase Emma through time. We are at the mercy of Rittenhouse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lyatt this chapter, but I promise we’ll get back to that next time. It’s what this fic is really going to be about *finger guns*


	3. Immigrants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Wyatt consider their options for getting out of 1888.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s some of that lyatt I promised you.

Wyatt was really tired of time travel.

Sure, sometimes it had its perks, like meeting Ian Fleming or seeing Frank Sinatra.

But why couldn’t they have gotten trapped in an era with phones or electricity or cars or any modern inventions that made life more bearable?

Even as he thought this, he could hear Lucy’s professor voice in the back of his head, informing him that telephones were already invented, electricity had been in use for years, and cars in 1888 were brand new but very much existed. (Wyatt was aware of this last fact; he knew as much about cars as he did about Delta Force.)

And yet Lucy’s nagging voice in the back of his head couldn’t stop him from complaining, at least to himself. And he found he didn’t mind Lucy’s professorial turns like he did when they’d first met, so he didn’t feel too much like a chastised student.

But more than phones, Wyatt would kill for a bobby pin, or any other slim piece of wire. He’d even settle for another one of Lucy’s modern bras (though he did his best to keep his thoughts off Lucy’s bra; they were in too dire a situation for him to indulge that part of his brain). Their bedroom-turned-cell was very sparse: scratchy sheets and wool blankets were the only additions to their bunk bed, which was bolted to the floor, preventing any use of that. A very tiny metal sink with a mirror not much bigger than a makeup compact sat against the wall. Their porthole didn’t open, and even if it did, it was only a foot in diameter, and he doubted even Lucy could squeeze through it.

The only other accessory was their clothes, draped over the end of the bed. Wyatt had shed his top hat and tails quickly, feeling less like an idiot the moment he did. He’d slept in his undershirt, keeping the suspenders on even though they were uncomfortable. Forget phones or cars, all Wyatt wanted was to travel to a time that had belts. Lucy had stayed in her many layers of dress until they’d given up trying to open the door for the night, when she’d removed the bustle and the corset and went to sleep in only the chemise underneath. Wyatt had had to help her unlace the corset, and he tried to ignore the heat that sprung to his cheeks when he remembered. He knew it was only for her comfort that he did so, but helping Lucy undress felt much more intimate, at least in his mind. He hadn’t done anything like that in a very long time.

As he stood regarding the door in the early morning darkness, Wyatt considered trying brute force again, but he had a feeling that would not be good for his shoulder. Lucy was still asleep on the lower bunk. Wyatt had insisted she take the bottom, even though he’d already hit his head on the ceiling twice. Wyatt knew Lucy’s skirts made moving difficult, let alone climbing a ladder.

Lucy murmured in her sleep. Wyatt couldn’t help but stare. She looked troubled as she slept, brow furrowed in her usual serious demeanor. It was rare when she smiled, actually smiled, with no worry behind her eyes. Wyatt wishes it happened more often. She groaned softly, and he wondered what she was dreaming about. Maybe Rittenhouse. He contemplated for the nth time what they’d done to her while she’d been with them. If it was something unspeakable, they wouldn’t have to worry about Rittenhouse anymore. He’d personally track down each and every agent and make them hurt.

But despite their predicament, despite the frustration and anger and uncertainty, Wyatt’s overarching emotion was relief. He’d been feeling relief ever since he’d locked arms with Lucy in that tent in 1918. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and as long as Lucy was still with them, that weight stayed off. (Granted, he felt a tad guilty for leaving Rufus in London, but at least Rufus wasn’t kidnapped.)

Lucy stirred again, rolling over and opening her eyes groggily. Wyatt quickly returned to intently studying the door.

“What time is it?”

Wyatt couldn’t stop the bark of laughter that escaped from his throat. Lucy’s brows furrowed again, and she sat up, slouching to keep from hitting her head on the top bunk.

“What’s funny?”

Wyatt shook his head. “What time is it? I don’t even know anymore. 1888, 1918, 1754. Who’s keeping track?” Wyatt laughed again, and this time it sounded a little desperate, even to his own ears.

Lucy’s lips quirked up in a confused smile. “I guess specificity should always be encouraged.”

“Okay, Professor,” Wyatt grinned.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “What time is it, _specifically_ , aboard this steamer in the middle of the Atlantic in 1888?”

Wyatt shrugged, still grinning. She always managed to put him in a good mood. “Hell if I know. It’s still dark outside, but I think it’s close to sunrise.”

Lucy stood and stared out the porthole. “I’ve never been in the open ocean before.”

Wyatt gave up his staring contest with the door and joined Lucy at the window. The sky was starting to lighten, but the water was almost indistinguishable from the horizon. It felt like an endless void; Wyatt mirthlessly smiled to himself at the thought that it was rather like when they traveled through time.

“The ocean freaks you out after everything we’ve done?” Wyatt asked wryly.

“At least I’ve gotten used to the time travel. The ocean is just so... big,” Lucy spoke quietly. “And there’s nowhere to go if something goes wrong.”

Wyatt’s grin faded. “Something you can’t control?”

“Shipwrecks left a lasting impression on me,” Lucy said. “Almost 1,600 people died aboard the _Titanic_. 1,200 people on the _Lusitania_ when the Germans torpedoed it in 1915. 4,000 people on the _Kiangya_ in 1948! If you’re in the middle of the ocean and your ship sinks, what are you going to do?”

“I get it,” Wyatt replied. “But you know history. This ship doesn’t sink.”

“I don’t know everything that ever happened in the history of all time, Wyatt.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “That’s not how historians work. I don’t even know what ship we’re on.”

“Okay, okay, sure,” Wyatt placated. “But Carol’s here, too. Would she have gotten on a ship that was doomed to sink?”

Lucy was quiet for a moment. “No, I guess not.”

“Exactly. She and Emma have some sort of plan, they know what they’re doing, and—“

“A plan,” Lucy interrupted. She stared into the middle distance, without really seeing. Wyatt watched her think; he could practically see the gears turning in her head.

“What is it?” He asked her softly. She locked eyes with him. His heart twisted at the sadness in her eyes.

“My mother had a plan. She got on this boat from London to travel to New York. Why? Why not just take the Mothership?”

Wyatt hadn’t thought of that.

“For some reason, Carol and Emma separated; Carol got on a boat to New York while Emma stayed behind in London,” Lucy reasoned. “Emma’s never exactly been the patient type. Why would she agree to wait the two weeks minimum it would take for Carol to travel to New York and back? Unless...”

“Unless Emma is going to New York, too.”

”In the Mothership.”

“To pick her up,” Wyatt finished.

Lucy’s eyes widened. “To pick us up,” she corrected.

Wyatt was confused. “What?”

“If Emma is picking up my mom in New York with the Mothership, she could bring us back, too.” Lucy was getting excited.

”I can’t really imagine that going well. ‘Oh, hey, Emma. We got separated from our ride and even though we’re trying to stop you and your creepy cult from taking over the world, would you mind us hitchhiking?’” Wyatt scoffed.

He regretted the mocking words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Lucy’s hopeful face fell and she shuffled her feet, turning away.

“Well, I don’t hear you offering any better solutions.”

Wyatt was hit by a wave of remorse.

“Hey, Lucy, I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m just frustrated.” He couldn’t blame her for being enthusiastic. They didn’t have a whole lot of options here, and any idea was better than none. “If you think we can find a way to get on the Mothership, I’m all for it. I trust you.”

And he did. More than he’d trusted anyone in quite a long time. Lucy looked him back at him, and he saw her brown eyes harden in resolve. It startled him a little; when had he gotten to know her so well?

“We could try to return to England and hope that Rufus hasn’t gone back after two weeks,” Lucy replied. “But if we’re wrong, then we’re stuck in London with no leads. I agree it’s not the best plan, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Wyatt nodded. “Then let’s go for it.” He walked back to the door and placed his hand on the cool, smooth wood. “But first we have to get out of here.”

Lucy joined him by the door. Now that they were no longer arguing, he was suddenly acutely aware of just how tight quarters they were in. Her bare shoulder brushed his as they stood regarding the door, and Wyatt tried to will away the heat that colored his cheeks. Even when they were stuck between a rock and a hard place, she still had the same effect on him. Rufus’s words sprang unbidden to his mind: _“You’re in love with Lucy, just admit it!”_ Rufus was clearly reading too much into it. Right? He’d mentioned being open to the possibilities, but he didn’t mean right that moment. He pushed the thoughts deep down in his brain; they had other stuff to worry about right now besides Wyatt’s emotional hang-ups.

“There’s no way to pick the lock?” Lucy asked.

Wyatt shook his head. “Everything in here is bolted to the wall, and there’s nothing useful with our clothes.”

“The corset has whalebone supports,” Lucy suggested. “Though it came from a costume store; they’re actually probably plastic.”

“Even if we did break out of here, you made a good point. We’re on a boat. As much as I’d love to commandeer a lifeboat and row to America ourselves, that feels a little farfetched.”

“Could we take over the ship?” Lucy asked halfheartedly.

Wyatt grinned wryly. “I think we’re a little outnumbered for that. Plus they took my gun.”

Lucy turned away and sat on her bed. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Wyatt sat next to her. The sun was starting to rise; he could see the waves reflecting the golden light outside the window.

“Are they just going to let us rot in here?”

Lucy shook her head. “We may be prisoners, but they’re still British. They won’t throw us overboard or let us starve. In fact, there’s probably a steward standing guard right outside. For bathroom breaks, and all.”

Wyatt tried to imagine the scene outside. Narrow hallway, steward most likely armed, and now that the sun was rising, other steerage passengers making their way to breakfast. Things were not in their favor.

“This probably sounds defeatist, but would you be opposed to just waiting until we get to New York?” Wyatt asked carefully.

Lucy smiled a little. “Actually, I was thinking the same thing. There’s no point trying to escape; they might shoot us and we wouldn’t really get anywhere.”

A knock at the door startled them both.

“I’ve brought you breakfast. I’m going to open the door. Please stand away. The guard is armed, and I’d really rather not have you shot,” a mild voice came from outside.

Wyatt and Lucy glanced at each other. They nodded once at each other, then Lucy spoke.

“We’re by the bed.”

The lock jiggled, and the door opened to reveal a young man in a steward’s uniform, little more than a kid, balancing a tray with two bowls on it.

When he laid eyes on Lucy in only her undergarments, his face turned as red as a tomato and he looked away. Lucy shifted, uncomfortable. Wyatt grabbed his jacket off the edge of the bed and handed it to her. She took it, a grateful look on her face as she put it around her shoulders.

“Hope you lot like porridge.” The kid set the tray on the floor, looking everywhere but them.

Lucy smiled. “Porridge is fine. Thank you.”

The boy shuffled his feet. “Good.”

Still he didn’t leave. Wyatt glanced at Lucy, who shrugged.

“Is there anything else?” Wyatt asked. The kid wasn’t a threat. He seemed more confused than anything else.

“Well, I... I’ve never met an American before,” the boy spoke lowly.

“Oh!” Lucy piped up. Wyatt had to smile at her enthusiasm. She was ever the good teacher.

“Well, this is my first time to London, too.”

This surprised Wyatt.

“Edmund.” The steward outside the door poked his head in. “Hurry along.”

Edmund bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.” He left the room, looking back once.

Lucy smiled again at him. “Goodbye.”

Edmund smiled back and left. The other steward poked his head back in. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

Wyatt shifted, uncomfortable. He hadn’t been asked that since he was a very young child.

They both shook their heads. The guard left, closing the door behind him. Wyatt heard the key turning in the lock.

He turned to Lucy. “Never been to England?”

“London,” Lucy corrected. “Mom always though there were better (or less cliché) historical places to visit when I was a kid, and when I was old enough to choose where I traveled, I tried to avoid planes as much as possible.”

“No control, right?”

Lucy nodded. “Kinda stupid, huh?”

Wyatt reached out and put a hand over hers. “No, it’s not.”

Lucy smiled. “At least I’m over the hump.”

It was one of her rare, genuine smiles. Wyatt always forgot how much he loved those until he saw one.

“Yeah, you are.”

—————————————————

They fell into a routine: wake up, be fetched by the guard for bathroom runs, receive a disappointing meal of lumpy gruel, and wait. Lucy would have given anything for a book, something to pass the time. As it was, she and Wyatt spend most of their time talking. Lucy learned that they shared a love of baseball, and they spent a long while debating the merits of the Giants versus the Rangers. They didn’t talk about her mother, or Rufus, or the fact that their world as they knew it could end. It felt absurdly normal, something they might discuss over drinks at a bar. Lucy could almost believe they were back in the present, the real present, where they didn’t have to live in a bunker, hiding like rats from Rittenhouse. But then the steward would unlock the door for a bathroom break, or Edmund would come bearing food, and the spell would be broken.

When the eighth day rolled around, Lucy was going positively stir-crazy. She hadn’t grown tired of talking to Wyatt (on the contrary, she felt like she could never know enough about him) but the fact that there was barely enough room for the two of them to stand side-by-side was enough to grate on anyone’s nerves. She could tell Wyatt felt the same way. He had taken to pacing the fifteen-foot length of the room. It was maddening to watch him. Just as Lucy was about to ask him to please stop, there was a knock at the door.

“Stand away, please. The ship has docked.”

Lucy shot to her feet, glad she had gotten dressed. Wyatt threw on his jacket.

“We’re back,” he called.

The door opened and the steward gestured for them to follow. “You’ll not be allowed back on any White Star vessels in the future. We don’t appreciate stowaways.”

Lucy felt a jolt of shock. “White Star Line?”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow.

The steward nodded. “We take our ocean liners very seriously.”

Lucy let out a nervous chuckle. “Of course.” She was very glad to be getting off this boat.

The steward led them through the winding steerage hallways until they made it back up to the top deck. Passengers of various classes disembarked. The third class passengers, while more ragged and far less manicured, seemed infinitely more joyful than the first class ones. The poorer passengers laughed and sang; the rich people conducted themselves with stoicism and restraint. In other words, they were entirely boring; Lucy had to smile at the third-class children who oohed and ahhed at the Statue of Liberty, which gleamed copper from her pedestal on Liberty Island. The sight of Lady Liberty shining like a new penny took Lucy’s breath away, and she had to clutch Wyatt’s arm to support herself. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

But she could only admire the view for a moment before the steward was handing Wyatt his gun back and shoving them down the gangplank, telling them to stay in their country if they had no money.

The raucous crowd was something else; immigrants from all walks of life gathered in line, some lugging large trunks, others clutching the hands of small children.

“This is Castle Garden,” Lucy breathlessly informed Wyatt. “Before Ellis Island opened in 1892, Battery Park was _the_ immigrant depot. It served millions of immigrants, from Italians to Eastern European Jews to Greeks and even Syrians.” Lucy was in awe at the sheer number of people speaking all kinds of languages she couldn’t understand.

“That’s great and all, but how do we find Carol in this mess?”

Leave it to Wyatt to burst her bubble with realism.

Lucy huffed. “Keep a sharp lookout?”

Lucy scanned the crowd. Most of those waiting in line were much poorer. Lucy knew her mother was traveling as a first-class passenger. A glimpse of a familiar blond head caught her eye. “There’s Carol!”

Lucy pushed her way through the throng, Wyatt following. Her mother was exiting the fort, and Lucy was determined not to lose her. It was only too late when she realized that she’d lost Wyatt, but she couldn’t make herself care about that too very much. She needed to get to her mother.

Lucy finally pushed her way out of Castle Garden. Horses pulled countless carriages up and down the cobblestone streets; several waited by the curb near the park. Lucy could only assume they were cabs, and her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted Carol climbing into one.

Lucy ran harder than she had in a very long time. “Mom!”

Carol turned, surprise painting her face. “Lucy?”

Lucy caught up to her. Carol stared down at her from the hansom.

“What is your endgame here?” Lucy hissed.

“Hold one moment, driver,” Carol called. “Lucy, I’m glad you made it off the boat. How did you enjoy your first time in London?”

“You abandon me and have me arrested and you think you can be fucking civil with me?” Lucy had never been more enraged in her life, except perhaps when she thought Rittenhouse had blown up her friends.

“Lucy, you don’t understand. If you’d just accept your birthright—“

“My birthright?” Lucy spluttered, incredulous. “I’d rather _die_ than be a Rittenhouse princess.”

Carol looked sad. Lucy tried to ignore the nagging voice in her head telling her she was disappointing her mother.

“You don’t get it, Lucy.”

“What don’t I get? The fact that you’re trying to kill people just to get what you want?”

“I’m not here for Rittenhouse, sweetie.”

“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me,” Lucy spat.

“I’ve always so loved the Victorian period and the Gilded Age. You know that. Perks of having a time machine: you can visit all your favorite time periods.”

Lucy’s blood ran cold and she could hardly breathe. “You’re here as a _tourist_?”

“Well, that makes it sound much less romantic, but yes, I suppose that sums it up,” Carol said.

“Lucy!” Wyatt’s voice rang through the din.

“I believe that’s my cue to leave. Driver?” Carol called. The driver snapped the horse’s reins.

“No!”

Lucy tried to grab hold of the carriage but it moved away into the chaos of the street too quickly, and she soon lost it from view.

“Lucy!” Wyatt ran up to her. “Jesus, I thought I’d lost you.”

“She’s gone,” Lucy said, dazed.

“What?”

Lucy pointed into the street. “My mom. She got in a carriage and I lost her.”

Wyatt swore.

“Oh, my God, Wyatt, that was our last chance to get home and now we’re really stuck here.” Lucy was having trouble breathing. “I lost her and now we have no idea where the Mothership will be and oh, my God—“

She doubled over, losing the ability to finish a coherent sentence. Panic rose in her, sharp like bile, and she couldn’t see straight.

She felt a hand squeezing her shoulder.

“Lucy, easy. Easy, just breathe,” Wyatt’s voice murmured above her. “What do we do when things go wrong?”

He gently pulled her back upright, his electric-blue eyes boring into her.

“We make it up as we go,” he finished.

Those blue eyes always grounded her. Lucy’s heart rate slowed and she was able to draw in deep breaths.

“How do we make it up?” She asked, scared for the answer, or lack thereof.

After another moment of making sure Lucy was alright, he released her and raked a hand through his hair. “Hell if I know. I guess we could always go back to Chicago. 1893 was just boatloads of fun.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “You want to stay here for _five years_?”

Wyatt’s wry grin faded. “Lucy, I was joking.”

But the wheels were already turning in Lucy’s head. “If we went back to Chicago and waited until 1893, we could get a message to past Rufus.”

Wyatt gripped her shoulders again. “I was _joking_. We can’t stay in the past for five years.

”Do you have a better plan?” Lucy shot back. She was tired of everything: time travel, Rittenhouse, her mother. She couldn’t see a better solution and if this is what it took to get back, then so be it. “Emma stayed in 1870s-Missouri for ten years.”

“Lucy, this is ridiculous, we can’t...” He trailed off. He stared at her, at a loss. This surprised Lucy. She hadn’t seen Wyatt with no direction since the Alamo.

She put a comforting hand on his arm. “I don’t want to do it either. But it’s the best we have.”

They stared at each other. Then Wyatt shook her off and turned around, gazing at the Castle.

“What if we continue looking for Carol and the Mothership while we wait?” Wyatt finally said.

“I think that would be a valuable use of our time,” Lucy responded quietly.

Wyatt turned back to her, his eyes steeled. “So what now? We find a train for Chicago?”

Lucy shook her head. “Since we have no money, I think our best bet would be getting some first. And I might have some idea how to do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll give you a hint for next chapter: bed-sharing is always a barrel of fun.


	4. Boarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy and Wyatt find a place to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much I love reading all your comments. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your thoughts.

Lucy did what she did best: she remembered her history.

New York in 1888 was a thriving port town, well on its way to becoming a world-class city. It was a haven for all manner of immigrants, mostly European, with some Middle Eastern thrown into the mix. Slowly but surely, “new” immigrants were beginning to replace the ones coming from England, France, Ireland, and other Western European countries. Now it was Italians, Russian Jews, Greeks, and all other manner of melting-pot Europeans, looked down upon by the previous generation. With more than three million people making up the five boroughs, it was rapidly changing into a commercial hub, for both native-born citizens and immigrants seeking the American Dream (though many would discover too late that the Dream they thought they were getting was more like a nightmare).

Lucy never cared for New York.

Even before she’d been in her car accident, the way the buildings and people were so tightly crammed into the small island made her skin itch. Lucy preferred the vistas of San Francisco to the skyscrapers of NYC any day. And though 1888 New York was an entirely different world than the present-day city she knew, the bustling people fresh off the boats mixed with the current residents hawking their wares made for a too-crowded town, and Lucy just wanted to find a place to take in a breath.

Unfortunately, they had next to no money, and in a city that prized capitalism above all else, that was a situation they needed to remedy quickly.

“New York in 1888 was changing,” Lucy murmured to Wyatt as they walked down the street. They dodged people in various states of finery, from ladies decked out in beautiful satin gowns to dirty urchins doing their best pickpocketing routines. Luckily, she and Wyatt had very little worth stealing, so she wasn’t too concerned, but she did loop her arm through Wyatt’s as a precaution. “It was becoming a center for poor, mostly European immigrants, most of which moved to the Lower East Side, which is why it still has such marked neighborhoods. Chinatown and Little Italy were thriving areas that appealed to those immigrants, and gave them a relatively safe haven.”

“Where does that leave us?” Wyatt responded. _Always interested in the history,_ Lucy thought wryly.

“There were countless boarding houses for new immigrants owned by various local political bosses. They weren’t great in terms of, you know, exploitation of the immigrants, but at least they’re cheap,” Lucy replied, speaking quickly. “They also helped them find jobs, which would be fantastic. Assuming it’s not bone-crushing factory work.”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “Awesome.”

Lucy nodded sardonically, agreeing. The Gilded Age was a rough time for anybody who was not rich, white, and male, but Lucy and Wyatt had few options. So Lucy did what she did best.

“Come on. Castle Garden isn’t far from the Lower East Side.”

—————————————————

Wyatt would never ever get used to time travel.

While he may not have geeked out over the past like Lucy was apt to do, he couldn’t deny that the sight of the Statue of Liberty, all gleaming gold and copper, hadn’t made his breath hitch in his throat just a little (and the fact that Lucy had clutched his arm like a life preserver had nothing whatsoever to do with it). But being in the actual city, with its wall-to-wall people, its garbage piled ankle-deep, its cacophony of voices and the clatter of horse hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestones, but more than anything else, the smell—rotting food and horse manure and something much more human in origin—almost made Wyatt wish he’d never gotten mixed up in all this.

He’d been to New York before. Plenty of times. It wasn’t his favorite place, but he liked the fast pace of the city, and Jess had loved the theater.

_Jess would think this is crazy,_ Wyatt thought with a smirk that soon faded. He found that he wasn’t gripped by that same all-consuming anger and desperate need as he once was when thinking about his late wife. But he did not need to be thinking about her right now, for a number of reasons, the main one being he and Lucy were very much stranded, the second one being he and _Lucy_ were very much stranded. He’d told her he needed to consider the possibilities (of what, he didn’t dare say), and he couldn’t do that if Jessica kept popping into his head like a very persistent poltergeist. Even as he tried to shove Jess out of his mind, he couldn’t banish the fond memories she elicited. But that was all they were at this point: fond memories.

Wyatt gave his head a little shake, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Lucy glanced at him.

“The smell is rough, I know,” she murmured. Wyatt figured she thought he’d wrinkled his nose at the stench, not at memories of his dead wife. Better to let her go on thinking what she did, especially as they walked down the street arm in arm, which Wyatt liked more than he cared to admit.

“Didn’t they know littering is bad for the environment?” Wyatt muttered as he kicked aside more garbage. They were almost wading through it, it was so dense.

“Officially, New York’s Sanitation Department was founded in 1881, but until 1895, when George Waring, Jr. was appointed Street Commissioner, the trash just piled up.” Lucy was in professor-mode, which Wyatt knew he was powerless to stop (but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it endearing). “A sewage system exists, but not everywhere in the city, so that adds to the problem, and caused a lot of cholera outbreaks in the last couple decades because human waste was just discarded on the street (or more usually, in backyard outhouses), which would then seep into the groundwater and make people sick.”

Wyatt couldn’t help but grin. “You give a whole new meaning to shit-talking.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “You’re just as bad as my students. I thought men were supposed to mature as they got older.”

Wyatt’s grin faded. “Would you rather I talk about how in addition to the whole impending-Rittenhouse-doom and the fact that we are very much not from this time, we also apparently have to worry about cholera?”

“We should be fine,” Lucy reasoned. “Manhattan is well on its way to fixing those problems.”

Wyatt swallowed. “Not exactly reassuring, but thanks, Professor.”

Lucy pulled him along. “Welcome to the Lower East Side.”

The streets were just as crowded and noisy, but Wyatt realized that he understood far less of the words spoken. He could just catch Italian, and a sprinkling of Arabic, but other than that he was at a loss. He quickly realized that the term “melting pot” wasn’t entirely accurate; the thousands of immigrants made more of a mosaic. They didn’t all melt together into one homogenous mass; instead, they each represented their home countries, but made up a larger picture together. It would have been incredible, if not for the extreme poverty.

Dirty-faced children chased each other, dodging in and out of the crowds. Men and women in various degrees of ragged clothing read newspapers and did their washing on the stoops of the tenements. He and Lucy were the best-dressed people there, and Wyatt suddenly felt even more out of place than usual.

“Where now?” Wyatt murmured in Lucy’s ear. She glanced up at him, brown eyes conflicted. Then she disengaged her arm from his and approached a washerwoman on the sidewalk.

“Pardon, ma’am, but I was wondering if you could point us in the direction of a boarding house?” Lucy entreated.

This was her big plan? Reach the Lower East Side and just _ask for directions?_ He was a fan of making it up as they go, but this bordered on the ridiculous. Wyatt fought to keep a calm smile on his face.

The woman regarded them suspiciously. “You look lost,” she replied, Irish accent thick.

“Oh, no, you see, we’ve just moved here and we need a place to stay.” Lucy batted her eyelashes, trying and mostly failing to look innocent.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but pointed to a four-story brownstone on the street corner. “Mary McGuire runs a house suitable for... inexperienced patrons such as yourselves.”

Lucy curtseyed awkwardly. “Thank you so much, ma’am.”

Wyatt gave the woman a nod. Lucy turned back and linked her arm through his once more. “Come on.”

“I would’ve liked to know that we didn’t actually have a plan in coming here,” Wyatt admonished.

“Look, I’m just working with what I got,” Lucy snapped back. Wyatt could tell the strain of the day (and the week) was catching up. And he couldn’t really blame her; after all, she had just lost her mother—no, _Carol_ , Wyatt reminded himself (he was determined to not refer to the woman who had almost let a certain redhead shoot Lucy as her mother)—again, and it had to be tough on her. Wyatt sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry, this is all just so...” He trailed off.

Lucy nodded. “Yeah, it is. But at least that kind lady gave the decidedly-not-from-around-here couple a place to stay.”

Wyatt agreed as he allowed Lucy to lead him to the inn run by the aforementioned Mary McGuire.

—————————————————

As they entered the unassuming brownstone, Lucy was immediately struck by the fact that it was _not_ a hotel.

She turned to Wyatt, who looked equally astonished and more than a little embarrassed.

“It would have been nice if that kind lady had mentioned that this is a _brothel_ ,” Wyatt hissed in her ear.

And sure enough, it was. Or at the very least, it was a dance hall, with a few burlesque dancers in skimpy clothing mooning around on a stage in the back. It was still early in the day, so the hall was almost empty otherwise, but a handful of men of various ages sat around small tables, drinking. A few of the dancers sat on some men’s laps, and Lucy took note of one leading her newest patron towards a door near the stage.

Lucy shrugged, cheeks burning and at a loss what to do next. She was usually good at thinking on her feet, but this newest development had really thrown her for a loop.

Lucy tried to turn back around. “Let’s go.”

But as they turned back to the door, they were stopped by the sight of a short middle-aged woman with strawberry-blond curls and the thickest glasses Lucy had ever seen perched on her nose.

The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her bright green eyes, which were somewhat magnified by her glasses.

“Afternoon’,” the woman said, her Irish accent noticeable even in only one word. “Name’s Mary McGuire. Welcome to me fine establishment.”

Lucy smiled nervously. “Good afternoon.”

“May I inquire as to what such a lovely young couple as yourselves is doin’ here?” Mary tilted her head, but something about the seemingly innocent gesture felt off. Lucy had a feeling that Mary was nowhere near as clueless as her owlish eyes made her look.

Lucy swallowed, steeling herself. Wyatt was never good at the cover stories, so it fell to her. “My name is Lucy Preston, ma’am, and we’re new to the city, and we heard you had rooms to rent in this lovely residence.”

Mary’s smile hardened. “I might just have one, but I usually rent to newly-arrived Irish folk. Keep up the community, you know.”

Lucy nodded vigorously. “Of course, that’s understandable. We just thought we’d check.”

Lucy grabbed Wyatt’s arm. They didn’t need to stay here any longer than necessary. New York Irish immigrant communities were notoriously corrupt in the late 19th century, and getting caught up in one was the last thing they needed.

“We’ll just be leaving,” Lucy finished with a strained smile.

Mary stuck out an arm, stopping them in their tracks.

“On the other hand, I’m never one to say no to good money,” she replied with a leer which made Lucy’s skin crawl. They needed to get out of here.

“Oh, no, we’ve bothered you long enough and—“

“We don’t have any money.” Wyatt cut in. “My wife and I are looking for jobs.”

Lucy choked, but quickly turned it into a cough.

_Wife?_

“We’ve only just arrived here, and we don’t know where else to go,” Wyatt continued.

Lucy wished he’d stop talking. But all she could do was smile and nod along.

“We’re willing to do almost anything,” Wyatt finished. Lucy caught his subtle emphasis of _almost_.

Mary drew her gaze lazily across the two of them. “Well, Mr. Preston, I don’t rightly run no charity here.”

Lucy forced a smile.

“But,” Mary continued, grin returning. “I have been lookin’ for a new washer.” She turned to Lucy, inspecting her. “My girls need their costumes washed and mended every night.”

Lucy swallowed. “I would... appreciate that, ma’am.”

Mary nodded and turned back to Wyatt. “Me husband works for city council. I understand they’re always lookin’ for janitors.”

Lucy could tell Wyatt’s teeth were clenched as he responded. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

Mary appraised them. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Preston, you’re in luck. I’ve just had a room open up today. Follow me.”

She led them towards the door in the back next to the stage.

Lucy clutched Wyatt’s arm as they followed Mary up the narrow, creaking stairs. Living above a brothel was not ideal. Living in a house owned by a woman who seemingly had ties, in the form of her city-council husband, to the Irish political machine was certainly not ideal. But having a place to stay and jobs (even bad ones) was better than wandering the streets, so Lucy resolved to make the best of it. If they kept their heads down and just did the work, they could avoid any trouble, right? Lucy had a sinking feeling in her gut at the thought—avoiding trouble was a trait she wished she possessed.

Mary led them up two flights of stairs to the third floor. “Rent’s a dollar a day. I collect weekly. You miss it any time, you’re out, you understand?”

Lucy nodded weakly. Wyatt responded, “Yes, ma’am.”

The hallway was narrow, with four or five rooms. Water damage stained the ceiling, and Lucy took care not to trip over the uneven floorboards. _The lap of luxury,_ Lucy thought dourly.

The door nearest them opened and Lucy collided with a mass of fiery red curls.

“Oof!”

She would have tripped to the floor had Wyatt not caught her by the shoulders. Lucy locked eyes on a young woman with the reddest hair Lucy had ever seen.

“Land’s sakes, I’m— oh, so— sorry!” The woman stuttered out.

“Jesus, Shannon. Keep a weather eye out, won’t you?” Mary berated, clearly exasperated.

“Aye, Mary.” The woman, Shannon, cast her eyes downward. She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five.

“It’s alright,” Lucy reassured her, smiling as warmly as she could muster in the moment. Shannon shyly returned the smile, stooping to pick up the laundry she had dropped in the collision.

Mary waved them forward. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Shannon ducked her head and hurried down the hallway toward her own room.

They stopped in front of the second door on the right. Mary pulled a keyring out from the pocket of her apron. She selected one brass key and removed it, fitting it into the lock and opening the door.

Lucy almost longed for their cramped stateroom on the ship. The room was larger, though not by much. Most of it was taken up by an iron double bed, sheets unmade and looking as though they’d been slept in very recently. A rickety desk and chair sat against one wall, complete with a small basin and a porcelain jug. A clothesline hung near the wall. A threadbare carpet protected much of the wooden floor, and a window looked out onto the busy street below. The wallpaper peeled in places, and the whole decrepit room gave off a general air of sadness.

Lucy struggled to find words. “It’s...”

“Lovely,” Wyatt supplied. Though Lucy could tell by the growl in his voice he was no more pleased with their accommodations than she.

Mary followed them in, picking up a half-empty whisky bottle from the desk and shoving it into her apron. “It’s a shit hole, but it’s my shit hole,” Mary replied, managing to sound both gruff and affectionate at the same time. “Washroom is down the hall. Only one for the floor. It’s got a tub and flush toilets,” Mary finished proudly.

Lucy smiled, squinting against the sudden headache behind her eyes. When had her life become so complicated that she drew great comfort from knowing that they wouldn’t have to use chamber pots?

Mary pulled the covers back onto the bed, somewhat making it. “Dinner is at 6 o’clock sharp each night. You miss it, you’re on your own.”

As she straightened up, she stared at Lucy and Wyatt, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t you have any luggage?” She asked, suspicious.

Wyatt chuckled nervously. “We, uh... don’t, because—”

“Because we eloped!” Lucy blurted out. She wanted to take back the words as soon as they left her mouth, given the bewildered look on Wyatt’s face, but it was too late now. “We had to run away from home and didn’t have any time to pack.”

It sounded like a poor excuse even to Lucy’s ears, but Mary seemed to be pondering it.

“Where was home?” She inquired.

“Kansas,” Lucy supplied, using the first faraway state that came to mind.

Mary continued to stare. Lucy was all out of ideas.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Mary finally shrugged and walked back to the door, setting the brass key on the desk as she passed. “As long as you pay me seven dollars a week, I suppose I don’t rightly care where you’ve come from. Come see me tomorrow about your employment. Good evenin’, Mr. and Mrs. Preston.”

With that, she left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Lucy exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They had a place to stay. They had jobs, or at least the promise of jobs.

Lucy sank onto the bed, rubbing her temples. Time travel gave her one roaring headache.

Across from her, Wyatt sat in the chair at the desk, looking similarly exhausted. “Not exactly how I saw the day going.”

Lucy let out a little bark of laughter. “I certainly didn’t wake up this morning thinking I’d be married,” Lucy replied wryly.

Wyatt closed his eyes. “Sorry. She was throwing us out; I panicked.”

“We might’ve found another boarding house that didn’t include a brothel,” Lucy reprimanded softly. She wasn’t really mad, but she was tired.

“And we might not have,” Wyatt responded, his voice full of his usual dry humor. Lucy couldn’t help but smile a little. No matter what changed in their lives, they would always disagree, mostly amicably. The thought filled Lucy with a sense of reassurance. But she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook just yet.

“You could’ve at least said we were siblings, you know,” she teased.

Wyatt shrugged. “I’m used to saying ‘my wife.’ I’ve never had to say ‘my sister,’ except for maybe that time at the Hindenburg. It just kinda popped out.”

Lucy grew somber. She hadn’t thought of that. Of course Wyatt would naturally gravitate towards spouse instead of sibling. She regretted teasing him.

Wyatt seemed to notice the shift in her mood, because he got up from the chair and sat next to her on the bed. “But hey, at least you got to keep your name.”

Lucy blinked, confused.

Wyatt smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Lucy loved his smiles. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Preston, remember? You introduced yourself first; I think Mrs. McGuire assumed the rest.”

Lucy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, how very progressive of you, Wyatt Preston, taking my name and all.”

Wyatt laughed, bumping her shoulder with his. Lucy was suddenly reminded of another time very recently when they’d been sitting on a bed together. She wondered what might’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted by a well-meaning Jiya. Lucy was very hot under the collar all of a sudden.

She risked a glance at Wyatt, who was staring at her in return. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was thinking the same thing. His eyes were so blue; Lucy always marveled at their color, like the underside of an iceberg, clear and arctic.

Lucy began leaning in as Wyatt did the same. She knew what his lips felt like on hers; that whole night with Bonnie and Clyde had sure been something. But they’d been putting on a show then, and Lucy often found herself wondering desperately what it would feel like to kiss him of her own free will.

Lucy was inches away from finding out when a knock sounded at the door.

She pulled back from Wyatt instantaneously, and thought she saw a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly Lucy figured she’d imagined it.

Lucy sprang to her feet and approached the door, feeling mutinous. She knew it was next to impossible, but it would be quite the cosmic joke if Jiya was somehow the one knocking once again.

Lucy opened the door to reveal Shannon, holding something wrapped in a clean handkerchief.

“Evenin’,” she chirped. “We weren’t properly introduced when I bumped into you in the hallway. Oh, I am so terribly sorry about that, by the way.”

She held out the object in her hand. “I brought you one of Mary’s scones to apologize.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re the best in the city, they are. I’m Shannon.”

The rapid-fire speech bewildered Lucy, but she tried to force a smile as she took the scone. “Oh, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Lucy, and this is my husband, Wyatt.”

Her voice hitched only a little when she said husband.

Wyatt stood behind Lucy. “Pleasure, ma’am.”

Shannon dipped in a small curtesy.

“Won’t you please come in, Shannon?” Lucy asked. Shannon shook her head.

“I don’t want to disturb you. I just wanted to apologize again. I can be terribly clumsy on occasion,” Shannon replied.

Lucy shook her head. “Don’t pay it any mind.”

Shannon smiled. “Dinner’s soon; would you like me to show you where the kitchen is?”

Lucy turned to Wyatt, who shrugged. “That would be lovely.”

Wyatt grabbed the key off the desk and followed Lucy outside, locking the door behind him.

“Have you ever been to New York before?” Shannon asked excitedly. “It’s an amazing city. So many people!”

Shannon chattered on about the various opportunities of the city, but Lucy found she was too tired to keep up, especially when she felt Wyatt’s hand at the small of her back, guiding her. She tried to mask the shiver that his touch elicited. It struck Lucy that she was going to be living in very close quarters with Wyatt for quite possibly a very long time. She didn’t know if she could stand it. Lucy knew that Wyatt was interested in her (their recently interrupted kisses were proof enough), just as she was interested in him. But she found that she was suddenly very afraid as to what would happen if they did ever finally do the deed. What if it was only physical for Wyatt? She knew he cared about her in an abstract sense, but she couldn’t be sure it was anything more. She, on the other hand, cared for Wyatt more than she’d had any man in a long time. And she wasn’t sure she could handle it if he didn’t feel the same way.

—————————————————

Dinner was an awkward affair, with other patrons, mostly women, asking about the new arrivals. Lucy had to further concoct their elopement lie, explaining they didn’t have the money to purchase rings. Wyatt added to their story that he was a widower, which made Lucy’s throat contract. She knew it was better to keep their story as straight as possible, but the thought of Jessica only exacerbated Lucy’s worries.

But after a bland meal of boiled cabbage and potatoes ( _oh, how the Irish loved their potatoes,_ Lucy thought wryly), she and Wyatt had excused themselves early, citing a long and exhausting day of travel.

Mary’s eyes had gleamed as she’d wished them a “restful night.”

Lucy felt her cheeks burning as she and Wyatt climbed the stairs.

When they finally reached the room, Lucy shut and locked the door, taking a deep breath. This was her life for the foreseeable future. She had to make the best of it.

Lucy turned and jumped a little when she saw that Wyatt was behind her. Their eyes met, and Lucy could swear she felt a charge pass through them. But then Wyatt roughly raked a hand through his hair and walked back to the desk. Lucy tried not to feel too disappointed.

“So what now?” Wyatt asked. That seemed to be the perpetual question in the back of Lucy’s mind. What now?

“I don’t know about you, but that lie about travel and exhaustion wasn’t a lie. I’m going to bed,” Lucy replied. Wyatt nodded, looking as tired as she felt.

Even if she couldn’t deny the attraction between them, Lucy still needed a modicum of privacy, so she took one of the sheets from the bed and tossed it over the clothesline that hung from the ceiling, creating a changing room of sorts. She quickly stripped off her costume, which by now was starting to smell like it had been worn for a week. Once she was back down to her undergarments, Lucy took a deep breath. This time felt different from the nights they’d shared on the boat. They weren’t trapped, they weren’t stepping on each other’s toes, and they had one large bed. _No_ , Lucy reminded herself. _Don’t think about the bed. Now’s not the time for that._

Lucy stepped out from behind the makeshift divider to find Wyatt lying on the floor on a blanket, eyes closed. He’d also changed into his undershirt.

Lucy stared down at him in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Wyatt opened his eyes. “Uh, well, I thought you’d be more comfortable if— the bed’s—“ He couldn’t seem to find a cohesive thought, and his cheeks slowly colored red.

Lucy realized what he was trying to say, though: only one bed for the two of them. And Wyatt gave it up to her, opting instead to sleep on the hard floor.

Lucy took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. She extinguished their lamp and climbed into bed.

“The bed’s plenty big enough for two people.”

Though she couldn’t see Wyatt, she could sense his confusion.

“You do what you want, but I’m just saying that I don’t mind sharing,” Lucy finished, trying to ignore the burning in her cheeks. Why should she be embarrassed? They were both adults here; surely she could handle sharing a bed (when the alternative was for Wyatt to sleep on the floor) better than a giggling middle-schooler. She rolled onto her side, facing the window and away from Wyatt.

After a few moments, she heard quiet rustling, and she felt the lumpy mattress dip as Wyatt slid in next to her. Lucy realized that a double bed really wasn’t that big, and there wasn’t more than a few inches between them.

Lucy hoped the electric current between them wouldn’t keep her awake.

“Lucy?” Wyatt’s voice was just above a whisper. It felt only appropriate in the dark.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry about Carol.”

Whatever Lucy was expecting Wyatt to say, that wasn’t it. She felt sudden tears prick her eyes. “Oh.”

“We’ll figure this out. I promise.” Wyatt sounded so earnest. Lucy couldn’t stop one tear from sliding down her cheek. They hadn’t known each other too very long, but Lucy now couldn’t imagine going through this with anyone else (besides Rufus, of course). She was very grateful that she didn’t have to experience this alone. Those six weeks when she’d thought her newfound family was dead had been damn near the worst of her life.

Before she could lose her nerve, Lucy turned to her other side, facing Wyatt. He lay on his back, but he turned onto his side to look at her. Even in the dark, she could make out his blue eyes; they reflected the sliver of moon visible from the gap between the curtains.

Lucy didn’t know how to express all the feelings she was experiencing. She’d never been good with the one-on-one, a fact which probably influenced not only her desire to study history, but to become a college professor. She did well in front of hundreds; not so much in front of one. And when she became flustered, her natural instinct was to hide in a history book. But she had a feeling that Wyatt understood her, maybe better than anyone. So she simply said, “thank you, Wyatt,” and hoped he got everything unspoken she tried to put behind it.

Wyatt gave a little nod in response, and she had a feeling he understood.

He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight, Wyatt.”

They stayed holding hands until long after Lucy fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the small liberties I took with Wyatt’s linguistic prowess. In “Party at Castle Varlar,” he mentioned being able to speak four languages, one of which is German. I’m assuming English counts among those four, so we’re left with two other languages that Wyatt speaks. “Stranded” established that French was not one of them, so I chose Italian and Arabic (he did missions in Syria, right?).


End file.
